


Hooked

by linguamortua



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bad Decisions, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Consensual Infidelity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 17:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13506765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: He can’t remember when it was that Roadhog started to call the shots. Maybe eight seconds after his first paycheque. Long time ago. Junkrat paid him, technically still does, although the money goes straight into Roadhog’s big, sweaty palm. Technically still his bodyguard. Guards Junkrat’s body fromotherpeople, anyway. Junkrat pays him for the privilege of only having one guy beat him up.It’s an okay deal.In which: Junkrat and Roadhog look out for each other, but they both have their own ideas about what that means.





	Hooked

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags carefully and decide whether or not this is the story for you.

It’s easy to pick someone up in a bar. Even here in the outback, even at the end of the world.

Easier when he still had both hands but whatever, he’s got a mouth and that’s all people want, that’s all they care about, and that’s what he does best anyway. A good distraction. It’s hard sitting around knowing someone out there needs somebody blown up, but doesn’t want him, Junkrat, the perfect candidate, out there _doing_ the blowing up. It’s rude. And Junkrat’s meant to be in charge, he’s supposed to call the shots. His own bodyguard, off without him—not a word of apology or anything. Leaving him all alone.

Not alone for long, though. Never alone for long, if he can help it—too noisy, on his own, too much bouncing around in his brain. Secrets—dangerous secrets. The kind of knowledge people kill for. Hard to ignore what he’s seen. Like a very loud, very persistent buzzing, drowning out most everything else. Keeping him on edge. And alive. Probably.

Refocus. He looks around the three-walled room, good leg bouncing up and down. It’s getting into late evening so it’s busy enough that he’s got options. Busy enough for some cover. People moving in and out, the patter of dust and grit on the corrugated iron roof. A buzz of noise and a shout or crash of breaking glass now and then. White noise. In a Junker bar like this, he barely even attracts attention—so normal! So unremarkable! Just a notch taller than average. Two of his own limbs, almost all of his teeth. Real prime material. All he has to do is clean himself up and smile a lot so he looks younger than his twenty-five years. It’s a disarming tactic, he finds. _Poor little Junker boy, need someone to look out for me, I can pay my way, mister, honest._

There’s a likely candidate in the corner. He’s got heavy, rounded shoulders and he’s a little top-heavy with it. An old bionic eye and a battered leather jacket. Mean face; big hands. Just the type to want what Junkrat has to offer. Junkrat slides down in his seat and rests his face on the heel of his hand. His other hand plays over his drink, gently, carefully, up and down the neck of a green glass bottle that’s chipped and warped with re-use. Once upon a time there’d been beer in it, but now it’s just some junker juice, distilled out of anything, alcohol content unknown. Makes great molotovs.

The man sees him, clocks him briefly and glances away as if it was an accident. Staring’s a bad move in a place like this so Junkrat does the same, peeps, looks away, cuts little glances across from under his eyelashes. His fingers trace the bottle neck. Can’t anybody mistake that gesture—the universal jerk-off. A tingle runs through Junkrat. He stands, slopes off towards the outhouse. It’s a clammy, warm night. The air hardly stirs and it’s not much fresher out here than in the shack of a bar.

When he gets to the outhouse the door is closed, but there’s a lean-to over by a spur of broken brick wall. Junkrat slouches over, ducks inside. Boxes of old bottles, some distilling kit and a bunch of sand and dirt in the corners. Dark and secluded. He folds himself down against the wall, one knee up and thumbs tucked under his harness.

The heavy tread of boots puts Junkrat on high alert immediately. He knows like breathing that it’s the man from the bar—his mark. He’s done this often enough to recognise a sure target. Only question is, is the man gearing up to fuck him or fight him? Sometimes it’s the second. Say one, two times in ten. There’s men out there still think if they beat up enough queers it’ll magically turn them straight.

Truth be told, Junkrat loves to fight. And he doesn’t often lose. But that’s not what he’s looking for tonight. It won’t get the job done. He’s got an objective, same one as always when Roadhog’s leaving him alone.

The crunch of sand under boots comes all the way up to the lean-to and then stops. It’s him—Junkrat can see the lower half of his body now. Boots and dilapidated grey-black jeans with a battered belt. Junkrat’s thrilled to see the way the man’s hands hang heavy and half-curled, sunken-knuckled. And the way his cock’s already tenting out his pants. Gets him a little hard just looking at it.

‘We doing this?’ the man asks in a husking voice, pitched quietly so as not to carry in the still night air. One big hand ghosts over the bulge in his trousers. Then he ducks under the edge of the shelter and comes in. Junkrat gazes up at him expectantly, making his eyes go round and large in his face. He licks his lips. He’s thirsty. Shifting his hands flat, he makes to get up—as much as he could in the cramped space—but the man steps over him. ‘Stay right there,’ the man says.

He barely has to hunch to stand up in the lean-to. Junkrat notices that the man is big but he is solid, not tall. He tips his head back against the old brick wall. A trickle of dried concrete skitters down his bare back and he waits, at the man’s mercy.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Can’t stand around out here, no matter what your business is. A motionless target is easy prey. This man knows it as well as Junkrat himself, because he unzips himself hurriedly, pulls his cock out and feeds it between Junkrat’s waiting lips.

Junkrat melts, a wash of satisfaction coursing through him. He feels himself slump down a little against the wall. The constant chatter that plagues him ebbs away, quiet, good, nothing to do except—except—conscious thought leaves him. There’s a thrumming of blood through his body, pulsing in his throat and his chest and his cock and his mouth. He doesn’t care who this guy is, or what he looks like, or even what he smells like. Down here, against the wall, in service, that’s where he wants to be.

The man isn’t particularly gentle, but neither is he rough. He’s got his own agenda. Junkrat could be anyone—he’s just a convenient tool to get this guy off. He likes that; it’s uncomplicated. And it’s not like Junkrat isn’t using this stranger too, in his own way. There’s a dull crack from the hinge of his jaw as he opens up wider. The man’s cock slides over his tongue, threatens to choke him.

He lets it happen. He _feels_.

 

* * *

 

The gentle buzz of alcohol and sex is a distant memory by the time Junkrat’s made the trek back to the room they’re renting. It’s not really a room. It’s more a one-room shack. There’s a whole shanty town here, the closest thing left to civilisation unless you’re a suit with access to the real towns. Junkrat doesn’t remember anything about Before, including—especially—luxury, so this room suits him fine. It’s private, he’s sheltered from prying eyes and sandstorms, and there’s a mattress on a pallet. Roadhog’s weight will crash right through it, so later Junkrat will be sleeping on the floor while Roadhog drags the mattress off for his own use. But for now he’s sitting on it, an actual mattress. Living the life.

There’s a bucket of water on a hook stuck in a crossbeam, dipped up from a proper well, and a string bag with food, hanging from the ceiling away from the rodents. Been a long while since they’ve had creature comforts like that.

He’s making a bomb. A small one. Leftover casings and scraps of fuse, just to use them up. Any explosive is better than none in a pinch. He picked up supplies on the way back with pocket change. Got what he paid for, too. The saltpeter is dross, clumsily distilled from piss somewhere, and the charcoal’s not much better. Junkrat’s got professional standards, and any gunpowder he turns out won’t be good for anything but making a hiss and a distraction. It’s the process, though, that’s what he likes. That’s what he craves. And it smells right, it smells good.

It won’t kill anyone. It’ll just cause a fuss. And maybe some pain. If Junkrat was smart, like, he might call that poetical. Or metaphorical. Or something.

He snaps the bomb casing home and tilts it back and forth, listening for the whisper of loose particles within. It’s silent so it’s sound. He slides it into a side pocket of his knapsack and brushes his hands off. Outside it’s very quiet, everyone out on a job or out at the watering holes and bars. The rushing in Junkrat’s ears is back, that buzzing, wearing feeling. He jumps up and paces for a while. In the dim light, he looks into a burnished piece of metal hanging on the wall. Someone put it there for a mirror. His face is all warped and strange, eyes staring unevenly back at him. Junkrat examines his reflection.

The man’s thick fingers have pinched a livid bruise into Junkrat’s shoulder, right where it meets his neck. Where his harness usually sits and leaves his tan striped pale. The bruise stands out in blue already, and Junkrat presses his thumb into it, letting it ache. He thrills. No way Roadhog will miss it, always alert as he is to the notion that another man might have touched Junkrat’s skin. Junkrat lets a giggle bubble up for a minute. _Good. Good good good._

He can’t remember when it was that Roadhog started to call the shots. Maybe eight seconds after his first paycheque. Long time ago. Junkrat paid him, technically still does, although the money goes straight into Roadhog’s big, sweaty palm. Technically still his bodyguard. Guards Junkrat’s body from _other_ people, anyway. Junkrat pays him for the privilege of only having one guy beat him up.

It’s an okay deal.

Junkrat hears the unmistakable sound of Roadhog making his way between the rows of shacks, as if summoned by a guilty thought. Can always hear him a mile off, from the sound of his impossibly heavy, genetically-altered feet slapping at the dirt. It’s an early warning sign. Junkrat scrabbles across the packed earth floor to the bucket of water. His hands are grimy but he dips them in there anyway and scoops a double handful of water up to his mouth, washing away the telltale taste, smell, of another man. He rinses and spits into the corner then tries to dry away the evidence from his face on his pants. Lifts the bucket back up onto its hook.

When Roadhog ducks his massive bulk through the tiny doorway, meaty shoulders brushing on either side, Junkrat’s caught clean-handed. Junkrat will be the first to admit that he’s lax in the bathing department. Fuck, who isn’t, out here? Water’s a valuable commodity and not to be wasted on washing when you could drink it instead. It’s so obvious that his hands and his face have been washed for a reason.

Roadhog’s masked face turns, slowly, and he gazes down at where Junkrat is crouched on the floor. Every line of Roadhog’s body radiates menace; every line of Junkrat’s projects guilt. Junkrat licks his lower lip nervously. He feels, quite clearly, the vibration in the hard dirt as Roadhog takes a step forward. Then Roadhog is leaning down, blocking out all the dim yellow light from outside. Abruptly he reaches out, quicker than you’d think for a mountain of a man, and pinches Junkrat’s narrow chin hard between finger and thumb.

‘Dirty boy,’ he says, his voice a rumble like nearby traffic. A truck juddering the best china. Junkrat thrums with it.

‘Aw, don’t be like that,’ he begins. ‘I got myself cleaned up for you and all.’

Roadhog makes a noise deep in his chest, almost a growl. Junkrat is already hard, so hard, and the way his legs are splayed open does nothing to hide it. It’s the second time today he’s been ready go with no release, and this time it’s almost painful.

‘Who?’ Roadhog asks.

‘Nobody!’

‘Who?’ Roadhog repeats, and his hand tightens on Junkrat’s face with tooth-grinding intensity. A hand like a vise, inescapable. So close to his throat. Junkrat tips his head up a little bit, hoping that Roadhog will skip ahead to the good part. The part where his huge, slab-like hand ends up around Junkrat’s neck. The bit he can really _feel_.

Instead, Roadhog cuffs him across the side of the head. It sends Junkrat to the floor but it’s casual, like Roadhog isn’t even thinking about it. The heavy sound of Roadhog’s tread recedes across the floor while Junkrat’s ears ring. He pulls himself up onto his elbows and watches Roadhog’s colossal shoulders ripple as he slowly drops his gear on the floor in a pile, piece by piece. Time stretches out, marked only by the hammering of Junkrat’s pulse in his throat and his ears. The packed sand of the floor presses into his elbows. Outside, some kind of bird shrieks suddenly and then falls silent. Junkrat watches Roadhog; watches him drop his belt, the heavy buckle clanking, and then dip himself up some water from the bucket.

There’s no blood on him that Junkrat can see, nothing at all that looks like the result of a fight.

‘Did you get the stuff?’ Junkrat asks, too curious to hold back. Roadhog grunts in assent.

‘Easy.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘Nah.’

‘You kill ‘em?’

‘Yeah.’ Roadhog turns then, his mask off and his scarred face twisted into a grin. Junkrat feels a flutter low down in his belly, where it’s pressed against the floor. Nothing gets Roadhog going like a little violence. Or a lot of violence. Usually a lot. He slides a little closer across the sandy floor, rustling across the dirt all lizard-like and eager. Roadhog allows it.

The hammering of blood in his ears has become a roar. Roadhog’s mouth is moving but Junkrat doesn’t hear anything, can’t think about anything but the way his dick is painfully hard. He presses his hips down against the ground, trying to relieve the pressure. His body is tight in that way it is when he knows pain’s coming—when an explosive assault backfires and he’s about to eat a whole concussive blast. He pants.

Abruptly he’s up in the air, feet scuffing across the floor, and Roadhog’s hand hard on the back of his neck.

‘Pay attention,’ Roadhog tells him, dropping him down onto the mattress. Junkrat’s knee hits the wooden pallet, and he makes a small, reflexive sound. Heat radiates from Roadhog’s body; he can feel it, even though Roadhog isn’t touching him. Roadhog isn’t touching him. Up close, the mattress smells like dust and old sweat. Junkrat presses his cheek down into it and arches his back, trying to make himself appealing.

The warm, animal smell of Roadhog is in the air. Heavy boots move. The air stirs, and all the fine, pale hairs on Junkrat’s bare top half prickle up. He’s on high alert, acutely aware of every inch of his body. The way his head’s still ringing from Roadhog’s blow. The taste of the man from the bar in his mouth. The constant dull ache in his arm stump. The uneven weight of his prosthetic hand. His belt digging into his hip, the blisters on his toes from his ill-fitting boot. He is accustomed to pain, and to degradation, and to not getting what he wants. More troublesome is his desperate, driving desire to not have to _think_. It wells up in him, inescapable, terrifying. His thoughts buzz and churn. He needs—

‘Come on,’ he mumbles into the mattress. He expects a slap for it, but instead Roadhog gets on big hand on the back of Junkrat’s jeans and yanks them down. This is it— this is it!—the brilliant, electric moment when he’s the sole focus of Roadhog’s violent attentions. Any of his attentions are good, and almost always Roadhog’s _not_ hurting him. But the man who was once called Mako Rutledge, in the Before time, is a specialist in violence. Really takes his time over it. A connoisseur. When Roadhog’s hurting you, he’s paying real good attention to you. Junkrat writhes. A band of excitement constricts his chest.

Then Roadhog’s cock, impossibly large, nudges up between Junkrat’s thighs. No preamble. It’s slick with something; hydraulic fluid, maybe, or cooking grease. Whatever they have lying around. The usual tinnitus roar in Junkrat’s ears intensifies to the point of pain. His good leg starts its convulsive bounce again, jostling his foot around all loose on the mattress. Roadhog’s hand engulfs his calf and pushes it down still and then—and then— he does it. Not the whole way. Not the real thing. Roadhog won’t ever put it in him. If it would even fit. _Too much for you, little rat._ He wants it anyway, squirms around aimlessly in a vain hope, but then Roadhog’s punishing weight comes down over his back and he has to be still.

Roadhog isn’t still at all. He presses the length of his cock down, down, rubbing right up against Junkrat’s balls all the way. One of Roadhog’s thumbs moves around, searching, and finds Junkrat’s asshole and almost pushes inside. Roadhog pauses to spit, and then it slips in—or not slipping, exactly, that would be easy—it bores in, in a long, frictive drag. The thought flashes through Junkrat’s mind that he’s getting fucked twice like this, and just thinking it makes him whimper. Any sound he makes is liable to piss Roadhog off if it’s _wrong_ , but this one is right, and Roadhog’s always-heaving breathing intensifies.

Roadhog is panting. Junkrat is panting too. The bare mattress is rough on his cock but it’s enough, nearly. Because Roadhog is canny and they’ve been doing this for so long, he’s got his thumb curled in the right way and it shoves into Junkrat almost like a cock with every thrust Roadhog makes. He frees his flesh hand from a bad angle and twists so he can scratch and pinch at his own nipple—just a bit more, he thinks, just a bit more—and he comes, too quickly, too desperate, his open mouth wildly sucking in air.

The way he jerks and moans tips Roadhog off. He keeps fucking Junkrat between the thighs in long, rough strokes, but he pulls his thumb out. He uses that hand to pull Junkrat’s ass cheeks apart to look at him, just to look, and Junkrat hides his face. Sometimes Roadhog gets off on making him spread himself for a viewing. So it makes Junkrat feel weird and hot and wanted. He lets Roadhog do it.

There’s a tempo like a fuse to the way they fuck, building and building, and even though Junkrat shot his load right away the fuse keeps burning down. He knows to the minute when Roadhog will roll him over. He gets it right and lets his body go easy. He shifts up on his elbow-and-a-half to get the angle, the angle where Roadhog can jerk himself off and make Junkrat swallow it. The size of Roadhog’s hands don’t look right. He can crush a regular man’s head in one—Junkrat’s seen it happen, heard the dull skull-crack and watched the guy twitch and piss himself to death. Distracting. Big fingers. Roadhog’s hand makes a wet noise on his cock, which is thick and red, and which Junkrat’s not allowed to ride. But he’s allowed—he is, he _is_ , Roadhog’s said so—to put his mouth on it. He does, best as he can manage. Roadhog jerks himself off slow and steady, salty, rutting up against Junkrat’s mouth. Junkrat paws helplessly at his own dick, soft and wet but still aching. It’s good. Roadhog puts his free hand on the back of Junkrat’s head and that’s good too.

He gasps for breath around Roadhog’s cock, licks, tries to do it right. The nudge of Roadhog’s thick metal rings on his chin is like a love tap. Two giant hands boxing him in. Safest place to be; on Roadhog’s good side. If Junkrat could unhinge his jaw like a snake, he’d do it. He can’t. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Roadhog grunts in warning, about to come, and then he does. It’s a lot. He’s still thirsty from earlier and he swallows in an awkward, loud way. His head spins; he realises he was holding his breath. And just like that, Roadhog’s standing up, his hands off Junkrat’s head.

He slumps back down after Roadhog’s done, bruised and warm all over. The tightness in his chest has gone and he can feel again, all realigned or rewired or something; in the present, existing. He shudders back to life, gasping for breath. As he falls onto his back, he realises that his face is wet.

‘Don’t cry,’ grunts Roadhog, one big thumb smudging a tear across Junkrat’s cheek. Junkrat stretches up into Roadhog’s rough hand, and is rewarded by a heavy pat on the head. Clanking, tinny, the bucket hooked on the ceiling starts moving down towards Junkrat like magic, until he realises Roadhog’s taken it down for him. It hovers in front of him. Roadhog holds it so he can drink. He drinks until his stomach hurts.

He could sleep, he reckons, a real sleep. Maybe even three or four hours without having to get up and patrol. If Roadhog’s around he can usually drift off. But Roadhog’s not settling in for sleep. He’s putting himself back together, tightening his mask back up again where he slacked it off for some air.

‘You’re leavin’?’ Junkrat asks, panicked. That wasn’t how the job was meant to go. He doesn’t like when the plan changes, unless it’s because he blew something up. That’s just business.

‘Just for a drink,’ Roadhog says. He pauses, buckling his belt. ‘Stay out of trouble, rat.’

Junkrat preens a little, like he always does when Roadhog takes care of him. The room swims with his tiredness and he lies down on the mattress, listening to Roadhog’s heavy tread disappear off between the shacks, to the distant sounds of fighting and music, to the insects, to the ringing in his ears—to the persistent, rhythmic hammering of his heart like a timebomb.


End file.
